


Maybe I Just Wanna Be Yours

by kakashihatake123



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Multi, Napoleon is actually a big softie, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4655862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashihatake123/pseuds/kakashihatake123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was almost a dance they have, Illya decided. How they move in perfect unison during missions they now replicate in the bedroom, touching, kissing, embracing each other as if they were afraid of parting. Almost as thought they could read each other’s minds they know where to touch, where to kiss, when to moan and when to call for more.</p><p>****</p><p>“Come on then.” Said Gaby archly, the look in her bright eyes making heat coil in his belly like a snake. “I don’t see how that’s a problem. We are partners in everything else. We might as well be partners in this.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "I Wanna Be Yours" by Arctic Monkeys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED: for content 8/28

Chapter One

            It was hot. And not the typical humid, grating heat that Illya Kuryakin was used to from his childhood when he returned home to find the electricity at his flat had been turned off after his father had not paid the bill. It was not even the heat of the summers in the East Berlin mechanics shop where Gaby had spent two years sweating in a navy jumper. This heat was insufferable and never-ending, even when the sun began to droop low in the sky it was still blindingly hot.

Napoleon Solo had long ago undid the cuff links that held together his tunic at the wrist and rolled up his sleeves before thinking better of it and removing his shirt all together, pulling off his tie as thought it were choking him. He wore a thin, sleeveless shirt beneath and even that felt too heavy for this heat, the fabric wet with perspiration and sticking to him.

By the third hour he had been half ready to forfeit the mission. "Is this man really so dangerous?" he asked, annoyed. "Are we absolutely sure he has nuclear capabilities?"

            "Yes." Illya had grunted from his place on the other side of the table. He held the cushioned side of the headphone to his ear, listening carefully to the audio of the tracker Gaby had managed to pin to the man’s lapel after not so accidently running into him earlier in the day.

His left hand had moved deftly to transcribe the words being said, his Russian to English translation nearly flawless. On a normal day he would be proud to have an opportunity to showcase his mastery of language before the Cowboy but instead he felt only miserable, the frown that crooked down the sides of his mouth deepening by the minute.

In truth he had been doing no better than Solo. At first the Red Peril had been too fastidious to unbutton his collar to allow a breeze to pass through, let alone remove the shirt completely as his comrade had done. But eventually the heat had grown too powerful and Illya had ripped away the shining black buttons on his shirt in his haste to remove it, throwing the spoiled cloth over the back of the chair.

Gaby lay on her stomach on the shag carpet, her legs crossed at the ankle and swinging in the air as she hummed a song Illya did not recognize. She had swept her hair up and away of her face in one of Illya’s hats and he did not ignore the fact that she looked far better in it than he ever had. Her face was flushed pink from the heat but the look was actually endearing and despite the fan she had fashioned from paper and twine she still remained uncomfortably hot.

The small fan she had repaired and positioned to blow fresh, if not hot, air on them was puttering and slowing by the second as it too became overheated, the bent wrought iron blades coming to a grating halt. Gaby could not help but think it was the saddest sight she had ever seen.

She let out a groan of frustration, taking the fan into her lap and prying open the back with a screwdriver she had acquired from Illya’s belt. But even she, good with her hands as she was, could not breathe life back into the machine.

“I always thought I would rather die in the cold than the heat.” She said irritably, tossing aside the heap of metal. “But I suppose death alongside the two of you was something I had anticipated for a long while now.”

“How sweet.” Solo remarked sarcastically, wiping his sweating brow with the back of his hand.

As usual he had dressed in a suit but deeply regretted it now. He had not been informed where their mission would be taking them and assumed, as they usually were, that they would be sent to Britain or perhaps back to Italy as they still dealt with the repercussions of Victoria Vinciguerra’s little nuclear mishap, but instead they had been sent to Morocco. Solo did not think he could think of any place hotter. Well, perhaps Hell.

Illya used his suit jacket as a makeshift curtain, pinning it up over the window to block the bright sun and his tie to fasten the antenna so that it would not jerk around as Illya transcribed his notes. But his shirt was long in the sleeve and hot in the fabric, sticking to his skin as though it was made of fly paper and he was the poor insect caught in it.

“How you gotten anything, Illya?” Gaby asked. “I don’t know if I can stand this heat for much longer.”

It had been three days. Three endless, ridiculous days. Three days they had been stuck in one room together, without food or water or shade. And it was quickly beginning to wear on them.

“This idiot is ordering lunch.” Said Illya, setting the pen down. “He has said nothing yet that would prove he is involved with the Moroccan spies.”

She wined again before excusing herself and disappearing through the door that veered left and out of the room. The room they occupied was one of the smallest Illya had ever seen, and he was used to terrible working conditions. It was comprised only of a small sitting area that opened up to a miniscule bedroom made up of only a single rectangular bed and a sewing chair. The kitchen was half the size of the living area, containing a square icebox and an empty panty.

The hotel they were staying at was being refurbished and this room was one of many that had been sectioned off and remained empty for he three months it would take to redo the building.

It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford to have a nicer room. No, Waverly would allocate funds for nearly anything they desired. Rooms, food, clothing, weapons. Anything they could ever want.

But this was a stealth mission and the outcome would depend on their discretion, or so Illya had said pointedly. The Red Peril had prohibited the American leave the room under any circumstance as he always attracted too much attention. And so they had spent three, going on four days in this hell.

Every once in a while they had managed to sneak out and bring back food and water for the others but as for clothes and baths, they was a strong lack of those around. And when the summer storm began and the electricity was cut off the room became stiflingly hot.

Gaby returned a quarter hour later swinging a room key in her hand, the key shining in the light. “Come on boys.” She said with a wave of her hand. “We are leaving.”

“And where exactly are we going?” asked Solo, curiously.

“There is a convention of American doctors and their wives downstairs occupying a series of rooms on the fifth and seventh floors. After a quick chat with the concierge I managed to procure one of these keys for my American doctor husband and I.” she said. “Although with a bit of tampering I was able to change the room number from floor six to floor nine.”

Napoleon grinned, kissing the woman on the cheek in his happiness. “I would kill for a bath.” He said. “And a good, stiff drink. And you, Peril?”

Illya pressed record on the machine he used and set down his pen. “As could I.”

As in all things, they were quick and practiced, sneaking down from the rooftop suite to the ninth floor unseen. The room was far larger than their other had been and they were instantly relieved and downright happy to see it. The living area was finely decorated in crimson and gold and laid with a soft, cushioned couch, a table and chairs, and a rather large and fully stocked bar.

The bedroom was more than comfortable; the bed large enough to house ten of them, let alone three. The curtains were drawn around the windows, casting the room in darkness.

“This is wonderful.” Gaby admired, having run to dive into the large bed. Her voice was slightly muffled beneath the blankets but they still heard her. “I haven’t slept properly in three days.”

“It is rather nice.” Said Napoleon. He stood behind the bar, admiring the labels of the assorted drinks. In a few minutes he had poured and served enough drinks to make them calm and warm bellied, Illya sunk low against the loveseat, the recording still playing.

Solo fished a triangle of soft cheese from the refrigerator, peering in to see what else the box held. He stood and gave a satisfied smile and within the hour he had donned a short, ruffled apron and managed to slice a loaf of warm bread, slicing a few fresh strawberries and mixing them with a spoonful of sugar and cream and spooned the fruit atop cheese and bread.

Gaby watched him as he worked, tilting her head and admiring the quietness of it all. It was almost domestic, if she really thought about it. In fact she could almost laugh. An infamous and dangerous spy spreading thin slices of Camembert on bread and singing under his breath as he did so. It was the stuff of daytime television.

“Soup’s on!” Solo called, setting the plates on the counter before them.

The table was small enough that they were nearly sitting on each other’s laps as they pulled their chairs together and as Illya stretched out his legs he could feel Gaby’s and Solo’s skin brush his.

Out of the corner of his eye Illya watched Gaby lick the leftover strawberry from her fingers one by one. He remembered the moments they had shared. Gaby’s fingers closing around the lapels of his shirt as he carried her to the bed, slight and soft, and laid her down upon the cushions. She had been as lovely as a dream that night, from the moment she had taken the bottle from the cabinet and poured herself a drink to the moment she poured herself into the bed.

He looked quickly away when she caught him looking, snapping his eyes back down to his own plate. Illya jumped halfway out of his seat when he felt something brush against his knee but soon realized it was her hand, her pale fingers warm enough to be felt even through his trousers.

Solo continued to read the newspaper without break, though he held far more interest in the goings on of his partners than that of the British stock market. He pitied poor Illya, always so rigid and uncomfortable in nearly every situation.

Expect when he was in the field.

Napoleon remembered when he had first seen Illya, running behind the car with the force and speed of a bat out of hell, strong enough to pull the trunk clean off of the car. And the Russian Kiss he had perfected. It was almost a dance, what Illya had. The way he moved, the way he fought and killed and lived through his work. For all Solo loved his work he knew he would never love it the way Illya did. 

He watched as Gaby’s fingers moved deftly, skating up his leg and to his thigh. He watched the flush of pink that filled Illya’s face and the way his jaw relaxed almost imperceptibly, his fingers tightening around his slice of bread enough to crush it.

Perhaps he should excuse himself, just to afford them a bit of privacy. But no, Napoleon decided, flipping the page of the newspaper he was pretending to read. This was far more interesting.

Even more so when he felt the sudden weight of something on his leg and realized Gaby’s other hand was far more occupied than he had seen. Her touch was more than modest and though there was nothing inherently seductive about it he knew that the girl knew exactly what she was doing and what she was doing to them. He looked at her over the top of the newspaper he could see her eyes burning bright and lustful. Well now she was a little minx now wasn’t she?

“Dinner was delicious.” Admired Gaby when she had finished her tease. “I am quite astonished you could create something so delicious from such poor rations. You are quite a chef.” She said, swooping down to kiss his cheek.

Even in the heat she smelled of lavender instead of sweat, her lips soft and plump against his cheek, so close to the corner of his mouth that he could taste the strawberries on her breath.

“I’m going to take a bath.” Gaby and Napoleon said in unison.

They exchanged a look, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “By all means, go ahead.” Said Napoleon, raising his hands in defeat. “I’ve got some work to get done.”

“No!” said Illya. “You are not leaving this room. You draw too much attention.”

Solo moved towards the bar where a record player stood on the blown glass table, flipping the button and listening as the machine whirred to life. “Well, if I can’t go outside I suppose I will have to occupy myself here. The bar is fully stocked. I suppose I will get blindly, stumbling drunk.” Said he, turning the record and dropping the needle, the sudden flow of music sharp and smooth.

Gaby laughed, that lilting, sweet laugh he loved and the room filled with music. “Illya does not like to dance.” She said. “Do you?”

“If I have a willing partner.” Answered Solo, cocking his head. She looked up at him through long, dark, batting lashes and smiled again. “And perhaps Peril will join us if we are convincing enough.”

Illya grunted in response, huddled over the small table, scribbling furiously. “But alas.” Said Gaby. “I must bathe first. I have three days of sweat to wash off.”

“True.” Said Solo. “I don’t think you want a partner who smells of sweat as much as I do.”

“Join me then.” Said Gaby archly.

Predictably, Illya jerked suddenly at their words. His movement had been so fast and strong that the table he sat at jerked upwards but Napoleon had anticipated this as soon as the women had turned her lustful eyes upon him and had removed his glass of scotch from the tabletop so it would not fall.

“Sorry.” He said, his face flooding with a blush. He pulled his military grade headphones back on and turned his attention back to his work.

“You ought not tease him, you know.” Said Solo.

Gaby’s eyes twinkled. “I have no idea what you mean.” She said innocently. “This heat must be making you see things.”

He took a long drink, his eyes falling to her bare legs. She had commandeered one of his button down shirts, wearing that and nothing more, the long sleeves pushed up around her elbows and the hem of his shirt falling just above her knees. It was almost as lovely on her as the thousand dollar dresses Waverly had bought for her as a welcome gift.

At first he had wondered if she knew what he was doing to poor Illya but then he had let out a low chuckle, knowing full well that she did. Every one of her movements was carefully executed, from the way she crossed her legs so that the fabric of the shirt pulled taut around her knees and was pulled higher to the way she licked the strawberry from her fingers one at a time. She was as lovely as ever before.

“Come on then.” Said Gaby. “I don’t see how that’s a problem. We are partners in everything else. We might as well be partners in this.” She took Napoleon’s hand and led him to the bathroom. Over his shoulder Solo did not miss the half glare, half surprised look Illya sent his way, for the first time fully looking up from the tape player.

The ivory tub was raised off the ground, the faucet and legs matching silver, shining bright enough to show their reflections as they walked forward. Gaby bent to turn the knob and start the flow of water and as she did so the shirt went even higher, showing the gentle curve of her bottom and the white lace of her underwear.

Without hesitation she began undoing the buttons of the shirt. The door had fallen open, a perfect view from the tub to the table Illya occupied in the sitting room. The Red Peril flushed so deeply that the jam they had eaten for lunch was put to shame but he did not shy away, did not turn, did not take his eyes from Gaby’s bare back as she pushed the shirt from her shoulders.

Neither man reacted. They only watched as she pushed down the soft white undergarment from around her hips and allowed them to pool at her feet before stepping into the ivory tub, taking Napoleon’s offered hand for balance.

The water was still cold as the pipes had not yet warmed up and gooseflesh rose on her skin, the water reaching up to her shoulders. Her skin glistened like diamonds in the sunlight that spilled through the high arch window and as she dipped her head back, a few strands of hair came loose from her updo and spilled into the water before darkening. 

Solo was reminded of the shows he had once seen while on a mission in a Paris cabaret house. They had worn nothing but thin cloths and twisted lingerie, their makeup loud and shining against pale skin beneath the bright cabaret lights. But those women had been nothing compared to Gaby.

She turned to look at them, draping her leg over the side of the tub. Illya watched the water bead down her skin and down the side of the tub, the movement slow as molasses but even sweeter.

All the synapses in his brain fired, screaming for him to run, to flee this situation at once. But his feet did not listen, rooted to the ground. “Well?” Gabby asked expectantly, looking over her soft shoulder. Behind the lip of the tub he could just make out the soft swell of her breast. “Are you boys coming?”

“I need a drink.” Illya said.

Turning to Napoleon Gaby quirked an eyebrow. “And you cowboy?” she asked softly. “Shall you join me?”

He pulled his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor, his fingers moving to undo the clasp of his belt. Gaby watched him as he undressed as if her eyes had not been doing this task for hours now, the muscles of his arms rippling as he bent to remove his pants.

He was beyond handsome, this American cowboy. Well muscled and strong there was not an inch of his body not riddled with muscle. This had been obvious even through his clothes, but now as he stood before her half nude, she could truly see sinew of his body. Even more than when they had scuba dived for a mission and had to strip and pat themselves dry at the side of the lake afterward.

The tub was spacious. Certainly it was large for them both, Gaby on one side and Solo on the other, his legs stretching out to stand on either side of her. For a few moments they only looked at each other, drinking in every detail; admiring the soft slopes of Gaby’s face and the curve of her mouth, quirking up into a smile, the swell of Napoleon’s neck, the rough stubble that lined his jaw and the twinkle of his eye.

“You are beautiful.” Said Napoleon Solo from the other side of the bath.

Her cheeks were pleasantly pink and as she shifted so did the bubbles, giving him a glimpse of their bodies beneath. The record was spinning, the volume loud enough to be heard even in the bathroom and as a fast song switched to something slow Gaby seemed to grow lachrymose.

“Would you hold me, cowboy?” she asked. It had been far too long since she had had a man’s arms around her.

She had half expected a witty response from Solo but instead he said nothing, suddenly serious, and without comment he shifted in the bath until Gaby leaned against his chest, his arms wrapped around her middle.

His body was as hard as she had assumed it to be but yet his chest was not uncomfortable to lean her head against and she could feel the rise and fall of his chest with ever breath. It was soothing, almost melodic and the music let her fall into a lull, her eyes half lidded and drooping.

From the sitting room Illya watched them mournfully. It had been months since he had nearly kissed her, months more since he and Gaby had wrestled and he had carried her to bed, her small hands brushing against his chest. But now it was Solo she leaned against, Solo’s arms that were wrapped around her, Solo’s body she pressed against hers.

He heard a splash and turned away, focusing on the pad of paper before him. He continued to transcribe the notes diligently. He jumped when Gaby draped her arms around him. “Illya.” She whispered, her lips brushing his ear. He was shocked to find she was wearing nothing but the water that dripped from her skin to soak his shirt. “Come with me.”

This time he did not object.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED: for content 8/28


	2. The Perfect Moment

Chapter Two

Gaby’s lips were as warm and soft as he had always supposed they were. Her breath tickled his lips as she smiled just before kissing him, her arms encircling his neck and tightening, pulling him flush against her. Her wet body had left an imprint against his clothes and he could feel the warmth of her through them and as suddenly as she had appeared everything but the feel of her body against his was gone from his mind.

“I…I thought you...” Illya stuttered, standing uncertainly.

“I want you.” She breathed, the smell of scotch on her breath. He was taken aback by her forwardness, thought he knew he should not be, seeing as she had just padded across the room fully nude and fallen into his arms. “I want you.”

 _Both of you_ , the words went verbally unsaid but from the look in her eyes he heard them all the same, though it was a proposition he did not object to. He watched her as she walked away, her shoulders back and her head held high. She was confident and proud and her body was as flawless as he had always thought it would be when he let her slip into his mind just before he fell asleep.

Illya found Gaby curled in Napoleon’s lap, her head resting in the crook of his neck. The Cowboy’s head lolled against the back of the tub, the drink in his hand half empty, humming along to the music of the record Illya had turned before joining them. Pushing aside the empty glass Illya offered a new one, watching the bob of Solo’s throat as he swallowed and set the glass on the windowsill.

“Damn good drink.” Solo said, his eyes shining. “Come along then, Peril.” The American teased. From so close Napoleon Solo could see the pressure that pushed at the front of Illya’s breeches. “Are you just going to stand there or will you be joining us?”

Kicking off his shoes Illya reacted before he could once again talk himself out of this and suddenly felt hands where he had not felt hands in many years as Gaby slowly undid the knots of his belt and the buttons that held together the trousers. Napoleon watched every flicker of expression that crossed his face with interest, slowly undoing the pins from Gaby’s hair until it fell around her shoulders in dark, wet ribbons.

Gaby turned in Napoleon’s lap until she was facing him and her lips were on his, tasting the spice of gin on his tongue. Watching them, Illya could feel heat coil in his belly as the pressure in his half undone trousers grew even worse.

The Cowboy was strong and well muscled, the water doing nothing to decrease his handsomeness and where Illya would normally feel competitive he felt only aroused, watching as the bubbles parted to show the part of Solo he had often heard woman praise.

Pulled down into the water Illya kissed Gaby again, her arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer until he could feel her breasts against his chest and Solo’s hand caught between their bodies from where he had once held Gaby’s hip. Illya closed his eyes, feeling every movement of the water as his partner’s shifted in the bath.

Gaby cocked her head to the side to allow the Cowboy to kiss her neck, a gesture she found entirely pleasurable, for as she kissed Illya he could feel her moan into his mouth. The sound affected both men in the same way; driving them half mad with temptation and making them deepen their kisses.

She moaned again as Napoleon’s hand moved from the flat of her stomach to the inside of her thigh and she moved against him in such a way as to show that she liked his movements, his callused fingers tickling and brushing her skin.

“Illya.” Solo whispered, lifting his eyes to meet the Red Peril’s.

“Yes, Cowboy?” grunted he.

“Touch her.”

Illya stiffened with discomfort. “Don’t tell me what to do.” he groaned, Gaby turning to kiss his own neck.

“I am only trying to help.” Solo grinned, his hands continuing to lower.

“I do not need your help, Cowboy. If I did I would ask.”

“Boys.” Gaby whined delicately. “This is not the time for fighting. But…” she added, turning to Illya and lowering her voice to a seductive whisper. “Napoleon is right.”

He flushed, feeling utterly foolish and his lips stilled as they moved along her shoulder blade. It had been too long since he had shared a bed with a woman, let alone a woman and another man. What would his father think? Or his mother, who had had her share of men in her life.

Illya could feel the blood rush to his head and his hands tightened hard enough to make Gaby gasp in pain as he had been holding her leg. Gaby and Napoleon seemed to be moving in unison, though he did not know how and the moment Gaby had gasped Napoleon was suddenly at his back.

“Peril.” He whispered, understanding instantly. His voice was soft as it had ever been and devoid of all the wit and sarcasm that it usually possessed. “Peril.” It was almost melodic.

His lips were soft and his mouth deft as it moved against Illya’s, more knowledgeable and practiced than Gaby’s had been but harder as well, the rough stubble that had come up after days of not shaving brushing against his skin with sandpaper like roughness. It was never something he would have thought he would enjoy and perhaps not something he would admit to the Cowboy, but he did.

Gradually his hand loosened from Gaby’s thigh and the pounding in his head lessened before completely dissipating. “I’m sorry.” Illya said, ashamed.

“Sh.” Gaby whispered, putting a finger to his lips to silence him. “There is nothing to apologize for.” She turned to Solo, “Take me to the bed.” There was no question in her voice.

As soon as he had relaxed Illya tensed again when he saw the crimson handprint he had left upon Gaby’s bare thigh but Solo was there again, as if he could sense the fear and anxiety growing in his partner. “Illya.” He whispered. “Be still, Peril. The lady just asked that we take her to bed.”

Gaby was slight in his strong arms and he lifted her out of the water easily, the water glistening as it beaded down her skin like pure crystals.

Once in the bed their rhythm did not slow nor change and once again Solo whispered to Illya, “touch her.” but this time Illya did not question the American, his fingers moving down her stomach and between her parted thighs. She gasped, her mouth opening against Solo’s and her back arched, her hand turning to a fist in the Cowboy’s hair.

Gaby turned, fitting against Napoleon as closely as if they were two kittens curled around each other and she hid her face in his neck, moaning as Illya continued his work.

It was almost a dance they have, Illya decided. How they move in perfect unison during missions they now replicate in the bedroom, touching, kissing, embracing each other as if they were afraid of parting. Almost as thought they could read each other’s minds they know where to touch, where to kiss, when to moan and when to call for more.

Gaby was pressed between them as Napoleon and Illya share another kiss, the Red Peril feeling the bitterness of liqueur in the American’s mouth. Solo was pleased to hear Illya moan when he withdrawals from the kiss, the Russian’s bottom lip caught between his teeth. For a moment Illya thinks he could stay like this forever, with the beautiful girl caught between them, one hand knotted in Illya’s hair, the other cupping Solo’s cheek as she deepened the kiss.

Illya lowers his lips to her breasts, paying special care to each one. Her nipples are pink and pebbled in the cold air and she moans when Illya’s tongue brushes each one before moving lower. Her stomach trembles as Illya and Napoleon kiss it before continuing lower, twin mouths leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses against her protruding hipbones.

“You are perfect.” Napoleon whispers and Illya is not sure to whom he is speaking. “Just as I knew you would be.”

Gaby quickly grew restless, her moans quickly turning to whines when she did not get what she wanted. Her face was flushed from exertion, the blush only deepening when Napoleon turned to whisper naughty things in her ear.

“Illya.” Gaby whispers impatiently, squirming between them. “Napoleon.”

Gaby was wet and willing as Illya entered her, as gentle as he could manage, her hips rising to meet him. She let out a small gasp, the sound music to his ears and pressed her eyes closed in ecstasy.

The bed shifted on the other side of them as Napoleon made to stand, reaching for the clothes he had discarded. “Cowboy.” Growled Illya, eying him. “Where do you think you are going?”

He grinned the charming smile he always did. “I thought I’d leave you to it.”

“No.” Gaby said, sitting forward. “Stay. Napoleon. Please stay.”

“Well.” He said with another smile. “You know what they say, Peril. Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

Gaby laughed, her nose scrunching up as she did so. It was a look Illya quite enjoyed, looking out at these partners he had become so fond of. Gaby with her pink cheeks and her scrunched nose, Napoleon with his bright grin and his dark hair, still wet from the bath they had shared.

It was a perfect moment.

Napoleon leaned down to kiss Gaby once more. This kiss was tender and loving, his rosebud lips soft and generous as they moved against hers. She even smiled, though the gesture did not break the kiss. Weeks ago Illya might have been jealous but now he too smiled as he watched his lovers and best friends, gasping as Gaby jerked her hips, pulling him until he lay flat atop her, his body warm.

She took Napoleon in hand, her palm stroking the base of his cock and her lips parted to accommodate him. Solo gasped, for the first time seeming to lose himself in the pleasure, his head lolling back and his eyes half lidded. They made a beautiful pair, both absorbed so completely in the throes of pleasure that Illya was sure if a bomb were to go off neither Gaby nor Solo would react.

At first he and Gaby had difficulty matching pace but when Napoleon had leaned over to place her cold hands on Illya’s hips it was easier, the woman’s writhing hips moving just in time with his and though the pace was quick, it was enjoyable, the act eliciting a loud moan from him.

His moans were deep and gruff, only making Gaby more aroused, turning her head to more thoroughly consume him. She left love marks down the skin of his hips and stomach, palming him.

Soon the waves of pleasure were too great to ignore and Gaby came with a half shout and the sound of Illya’s name in her mouth was enough to send him over the edge. Just as he came he peaked open an eye to find the Cowboy was just behind him, his face twisted in the delicious torment of orgasm and just as they fought together, they came together.

Gaby rolled over to where Solo had collapsed, resting her chin upon his chest. “You are lovely, my darling.” He admired, brushing back a strand of her dark hair and kissing her brow. He blinked sleepily, his dark eyes finding Illya before sweeping over his taut body. “And you, Peril.”

“I could say the same thing about you, Cowboy.” Said Illya, collapsing back on the bed. “And you, lady.”

They lay together on the large bed, the cushioned blankets pillowy beneath them. Gaby’s slight frame was pressed between them, her head resting upon Napoleon’s bare chest with Illya on the other side, a pleased smile etched across his face. Half asleep Gaby shivered and without hesitation Napoleon reached up to pull the blanket over their bodies, the soft white feather stuffed cushion engulfing them in warmth and comfort and before he realized it, Napoleon Solo was falling into satisfied sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this pairing as much as I do!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

There was a great ease to the group that had never been present before, apparent from the moment Illya Kuryakin rolled onto his back and found his bed occupied with two bodies. He felt an involuntary smile pull at the corners of his mouth at the sight of them, his two partners. An American and a Brit. He could never have imagined it.

Gaby and Napoleon were curled together like Russian nesting dolls, their bodies pressed together and in turn pressed against him. The American's arms pulled Gaby taut against his front, the perfect angle to allow her head to rest against his bare chest. The space Illya had once occupied in the bed now stood empty, the crimson sheets wrinkled from the weight of his body. As he made to stand Gaby made a noise of frustration and he looked over his shoulder to find her arms searching for him even in sleep.

The curtains that were pulled across the long window were thin enough to allow the light to pass through, the sun just beginning its ascent. Illya always awoke early, choosing to begin his day before the hotel was taken over by the hustle and bustle of tourists and businessmen and before their target rose and left.

Illya paused just before the bathroom door, looking once more at the bed and striding to it. Bending quietly forward he brushed a kiss against Gaby’s forehead, feeling her skin soft and cool as porcelain beneath his lips. 

Straightening once more Illya found Napoleon’s eyes had opened and the American was watching him closely, dark eyes shining. “Have you a kiss for me, Peril?” he asked, careful not to wake the sleeping woman.

"A Russian kiss perhaps." Illya returned, but the words were not malicious in meaning and the lilt of the short laugh he gave was nothing but pleasant. Napoleon’s stomach rumbled loudly. “Hungry?” asked Illya, quirking an eyebrow.

“Well after such a ruckus night of exercise, to put it delicately, I have worked up quite an appetite. I have heard the café downstairs is excellent- not that I have been allowed to visit it.”

“It is your own fault.” Said the Russian spy. “Had you not been so conspicuous-“

“I prefer the term charming.”

“- _conspicuous_.” Illya said again. “Then you could do whatever you want.”

Napoleon opened his mouth to speak but stopped abruptly. He had let his eyes wander from Illya’s face and now looked instead at Gaby. She looked as though someone should paint her.

One of her legs had come free from the blanket and stuck out delicately, the sun shining against her olive skin. Her hair was slightly curled from rubbing against the silk pillow during the night and it was spread over her shoulders like a dark curtain, begging to have his fingers run through it. Even now Illya could make out the outline of her body as she lie on her back, the swell of her hip, the soft curve of her stomach.

"Beautiful." Solo mused. He stood, half dressed, at Illya's flank, his own dark hair curled against his forehead with all the resemblance of Clarke Kent in those American shows Illya had always seen being advertised. 

"Yes." said Illya. All the fight had gone from his voice at the sight of her, as though the curve of her mouth and the slope of her neck had cured the anxiety that had plagued him for years. 

The watch on Illya's wrist read six o'clock, too early to awake the sleeping woman, so they left her to her own devices, splitting off in separate directions as they made to find breakfast. Once Illya found his way to the cafe Solo had spoken of he found the American already occupying a seat at the bar. As usual the man was surrounded by a sea of women, fluttering around him as busy as birds, crooning and primping and doing their very best to gain his favour. But Illya knew the only woman he cared for was still sleeping six floors above. 

“Where is your wife, Mr. Collins.” Said one of the woman, overheard by Illya as he walked closer to place his drink order at the bar.

It was Napoleon's turn to pose as Gaby's husband, knowing a married couple would attract far less attention than two men and a woman travelling together through Morocco. In truth Illya missed her hand on his arm as they walked or her smile upon him with faux charm whenever they stood before another couple, just as they had in Rome. But Illya had received true kisses the night before, and the thought warmed him.

“Sleeping quietly upstairs.” Said Napoleon with an ever-charming grin. “Quite a busy day we had yesterday.”

Illya knew the man was trying to goad him into a response but he schooled his face into neutrality, speaking to the bar tender in a near perfect American accent. He had practiced daily with Napoleon and while the man often teased and poked fun at him, his American accent had greatly improved.

He thought back to the days they had spent studying, holed up in their hotel rooms or flats with nothing more to do then play games or chess, as Illya often did, or listen to records, as Gaby often did. Solo’s German was flawless, as so many other things he did but he still practiced with Gaby twice weekly, conversing easily with her.

Illya thought back to the contentious relationship they had always had. But now…he felt different. Not only were they partners but they were friends as well. There was love there. He did not know how to explain it and did not even try, watching Solo down his mimosa almost gracefully.

Solo often thought of the day he had first seen Illya. He was almost non-human, running without tiring, strong enough to pull the trunk from his car. Part of him had been intrigued, part of him nervous, and if he was to be completely frank part of him was aroused.

When he had first joined the CIA he had gone through partners like tissues. Some were disagreeable; some couldn’t deal with his “volatile personality”, some were not good enough to keep pace with him. But Illya…he was something different all together and never would he admit it to the Russian spy but he was the perfect partner. Well he and Gaby.

He was brought back to reality when one of the women slipped him a piece of torn paper. “For a rainy day…” She said seductively, brushing her hand against the inside of his thigh. Unless Solo’s eyes deceived him he could see Illya smiling into his glass from across the room. Damn his alien hearing.

Dropping the paper in the ashtray that rested upon the bar Napoleon made his way back up to his rooms, finding Gaby had awakened in his absence. “Hello, husband.” She chided, draping her arms around his shoulders. He watched her, a warm blush settling in his cheeks. He was far from embarrassed. Oh no, things like half naked women draped over him like a coat on a rack did not embarrass him. This blush stemmed from pleasure.

He knew the words were fake but still they elicited real emotion. Gaby smiled, so close to his face that he could see the paper-thin wrinkles that appeared at the corner of her eye and the soft freckles that lay over her cheeks. She kissed him, unabashed, unashamed, and unimpeded and her lips were sweet as sugar.

Looking over her shoulder he could see a serving tray of fresh strawberries, small jars of jams, and a cloche of eggs and thick slices of ham. “The hostess was very interested in the goings on of my husband.” She said, biting down into a plump strawberry. Watching her eat was torture, Napoleon thinking what he wouldn’t give to be that strawberry right now, brushing against her lips, juices dripping down her chin.

“Are you jealous?”

He had been teasing and was surprised when she responded. “Yes.” Said Gaby. “I want you all to myself, Cowboy.”

“And you have me.” He produced something from his pocket.

Her face lit up. “Have you brought something for me?”

“Clothes, for you seem to have a clear lack of them.” Said the American spy, eyeing the thin silk slip she wore as he flipped open the lid on the box. “A new garter for you, lady. I know your last one was ripped in a…heated moment.”

"Clothes I have no use for." said Gaby, draping her arms around his shoulders, his hands falling easily to her hips and settling there. The silk was creamy as butter beneath his rough hands. "Food however...but that can wait."

"You do seem to have an insatiable appetite." Napoleon mused, looking up at her through dark lashes. The double meaning did not go unnoticed. 

"Feed me then." she replied without pause, watching the way Napoleon stiffened at that. She slipped her arms around his neck, brushing the pads of her fingers across his mouth as she did so.

His mouth was hungry against hers, feeling her lips part against his. Her arms were tight, as if she was afraid to part from him and she pulled him close, her embrace welcome. Gaby pushed aside Napoleon’s suit jacket, nearly ripping the buttons in her haste.

“Easy.” Solo grinned. “We have all the time in the world.

“Actually.” Said Illya, pressing the door closed behind him. At the sight of them his cheeks had flushed and his hands had turned into fists in the pockets of his bomber jacket. “Waverly rang. The target has flown to Paris. A plane for us will be arriving soon.”

“How soon?” asked the Cowboy.

Illya considered them for a moment. “Not quite so soon.” Said he, moving to the side of the room to draw the curtains. “Waverly assured us were to finish our business here first.”

They were enveloped in fresh darkness, only a few rays of light and the flickering television to light their way. “You did promise me a dance.” Said Napoleon Solo. “I would count that as unfinished business.”

Illya eyed them for a moment before striding to the bar and flipping the metal switch on the record player, the slow, gentle sound of music rising to their ears as the machine warmed up. The song was slow and melodic, almost poetic, the lazy voice of Luigi Tenco enveloping them completely.

Illya lingered a few seconds more before returning to his desk, a newly set up board of chess set before him.

The slip left her arms bare save the small straps around her shoulders and as she turned in his arms the fabric might as well have been paper for how thin it was. Not that he would ever complain about such a thing.

With her hand in his Gaby moved as smoothly as water, her training as a dancer assuring her movements were graceful as a gazelle. Even in the field she had a delicate touch, the knife that she often wore pinned to the side of her garter able to move to her hand in an instant.  And she was skilled with it, at least as skilled as Illya was with his Russian kiss.

Solo had always been a fine dancer. He had always known that dance was one of the easiest ways to seduce a woman and had long ago honed his skills. They were not naked but they might as well be, the clothes that stood between them doing little to stop their passion.

Illya felt his stomach twist into a knot. Gaby had once asked to dance with him. He could still feel the sharp sting of his own hand striking his cheek, leaving the skin warm and pink. She had smiled then and his anger had dissipated. Seconds later they were on the floor, her body pinning him down with force he had not known that she possessed.

Sometimes at night he still thought of her warm body upon his, both when they had wrestled and the night they had made love. Illya had long ago stopped trying to define what had happened between the three that night in the bath and in the bed. He had analyzed again and again as he tried to understand the lust that had so completely engulfed him.

He felt it now too, watching them move, Gaby’s hips swaying back and forth, guided gently by Solo’s callused hands. He was humming softly, his cheek pressed into her hair, an arm loose around her waist. It was perfect. But he was not a part of it.

“Peril.” Said the Cowboy, softly. “Are you going to stand there and stay or will you join us?”

His voice was almost loving, the smile on his face not unkind, and he offered his hand. Illya hesitated a moment too long. “Come on, Peril.” Said Napoleon. “I am asking you to dance not chew off your own arm. Don’t look so pained.”

“I won’t bite.” Gaby said, a manicured eyebrow quirking. “Unless you ask nicely.”

Illya moved towards them. He had often felt like the outsider of their group, the third wheel even. Gaby and Solo were so alike that even their movements were similar, the couple splitting apart to accompany him and he was pulled between them like the meat in a sandwich. 

Their bodies were warm on either side of him, arms snaking about his body. He jumped with twin fingers pinched his nipple through his shirt, tried to pull away when a hand cupped his bottom though his jeans, relaxed with Gaby’s arms held him tight around his middle, letting her head fall against him.

She smelled of lavender and rosewater and her hair was smooth as he ran it through his fingers, tucking a strand behind her ear as she looked up at him. Even Solo had gone quiet, enjoying the bliss of the moment without sarcasm or humor.

Illya let his head drop back to rest against the Cowboy’s broad shoulder, feeling the tough sinew beneath. It was different embracing a man. Solo was larger, wider, and harder- in more ways than one, than Gaby had ever been. But once Illya had allowed himself a breath and a break he found it was not an unpleasant feeling.

Solo’s lips were warm and smooth, his face freshly shaven and smelling of cologne, deep and strong. He turned to meet the spy’s eyes, unblinkingly. They were deep and dark, so dark a blue they were nearly black, but they were truly as mesmerizing as the woman often said they were.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” asked Solo, half jokingly. “Or are you going to kiss me?”

Illya did not wait to talk himself out of it again, pushing his lips against Solo’s almost matter of factly. But his smugness melted away instantly. The way the spy’s mouth moved against his made his mind go suddenly blank, the only thing in the world that seemed important being his tongue and the Cowboy’s.

Gaby embraced him from behind, a hand reaching down to stroke his thigh. He was so hard now he was not sure he could get any harder, or so he thought. It wasn’t until Solo pressed his own front to Illya’s that his need became so great Illya nearly fainted from desire.

The phone rang suddenly. The sound was jarring and Gaby moved to answer it, her perfect mouth slightly swollen and pink from kissing. She listened for a moment, leaving the gentleman to their task before she clucked her tongue and hung up the phone.

“I’m sorry to say this boys.” She said, the annoyance in her voice clear. “But the plane has arrived. Waverly is waiting.”

Solo took a step back, looking at Illya. His eyes were so filled with lust that it was almost painful. “I guess we will have to continue this later.” He said.

“We will.” Grunted Illya, half breathless.

Gaby looked between her two lovers. They were half mad with the temptation of each other, their arousal clear from the fabric that was pulled taut at the front of their trousers. She grinned. “Well I girl could certainly look forward to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was so unbelievably fun to write. I was so surprised at how much I enjoyed this movie- well not really actually. I've been lusting after Henry Cavill since he was Charles Brandon in The Tudors!
> 
> I'm sure I will be writing more Man from UNCLE fics soon but I think the sun has set on this one. Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing :)

**Author's Note:**

> I loved The Man From U.N.C.L.E so much. This relationship just needed to happen, so I made it :) Let me know what you think!


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